


Letting Go

by TheTiniestFish



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Character Turned Into Vampire, M/M, Vampire Bites, Vampire Turning, Will I give poor Jonathan Sims a break ever? Jury is still out.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26410972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTiniestFish/pseuds/TheTiniestFish
Summary: Jon has been living with a monster for a long time. It may come and go, but it always returns to him. Michael has become one of the only constants for him, staying through everything.When you're playing with fire for so long, its easy to forget that it burns.Michael makes sure that Jon remembers.
Relationships: Michael | The Distortion/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 69





	Letting Go

Jon doesn’t remember inviting Michael in. It feels rather like it turned up in his life one day, and refused to leave. Jon must have invited it in at some point, he must have. Michael is always there. Just another fact of Jon’s monotonous life. Death, taxes and Michael.

It’s there as Jon makes breakfast. It’s there as Jon picks out the same outfit with a fresh shirt. It’s there, watching with amusement as Jon struggles to carry the bin bags down to the street below. Michael is perfectly capable of helping, a fact that Jon is very much aware of. But trying to get something like Michael to help- well, at best it would flat out refuse. At worst- it would help, in the most inconvenient way possible.

Jon is used to it at this point. The fear, the danger- it seems all so far away. It’s all so distant it practically feels safe. Of course, those moments of false security, when fear gives way to a new sense of normality- that’s always when Michael is at its most dangerous.

It’s late when Jon returns from work, dishevelled and aching from a long and arduous commute, forced to stand and wait at the platform for what felt like hours. Especially with the lack of mobile signal down in the Underground- having to wait, not even with emails to check, things to research, as train after train is cancelled- well, it's just another thing to complain about to his only mostly-unwelcome guest.

His door is open. That’s the first thing that he notices as he enters the flat with a sigh. It creaks, high pitched and whining as he closes it behind him. He barely even registers the cold breath on the back of his neck as he drops his heavy backpack, and it meets the wooden floor with a thud. Its contents spill across the ground, but… he can’t really bring himself to pick it all up just yet. He throws his suit blazer on the couch, and-

Oh. He feels something between annoyance and relief at the gentle touch of Michael’s long hands on his shoulders. But it’s been a long, long day, and as they drift towards his neck he can’t help but melt into the contact, leaning into the quiet comfort it provides him as he- Wait, dammit. Jon remembers himself and bats the hands away, as Michael makes a rather put-out sound. It rather reminds him of the Admiral, denied the attention he is so sure he deserves.

“I’ve just gotten in, Michael,” he says, “You could at least give me a moment to collect myself.”

“But Jonathan,” it says, high and petulant, “You’ve been gone all day. Terrorising people out in the streets just isn’t the same.”

Brat.  
Jon stands up and dusts himself off, giving Michael a long, hard look.  
“I’m going to make dinner now. You can help if you want, but if you make me burn everything again-”

“-Yes, yes,” says Michael, cutting him off impatiently. It’s playing with the cable on the old phone Jon has now, a landline that hasn’t been plugged in for years. The spiralling plastic seems to fascinate it in some way, as it gently traces lines down the coil.

Jon sighs again. It’s becoming rather a habit. Then again, he does live with a monster who could kill him without even thinking about it, and likely will someday, and seems rather content to instead play with the junk lying around Jon’s house, from boxes half emptied. He really should get around to taking them to charity shops or the rubbish tip, but the energy rather escapes him these days. Whether it’s from the long work days, the regular London commute, or the parasite that lives in his flat, rent-free, he’s never quite sure.

It doesn’t take long to make dinner. Michael is impatient tonight, pacing the length of the kitchen with teeth flashing, so Jon elects to make something simple, and eats it quickly. 

He doesn’t bother to wash up. On nights like this, it's never a good idea to keep Michael waiting.

He gives up on tidying too, instead using the patience it has left to quickly change out of his suit and into something that wouldn’t matter if it were flecked by blood. A flicker of sadness runs through him as he realises that the already bloodstained t-shirt was one of Georgie’s old ones, borrowed on laundry day and never returned. He’d bet money that she still has some of his, but it's a quiet reminder of the normalcy he’s lost.

He takes a seat on the old armchair, the thing covered in enough plastic under the layers of blankets that the upholstery should survive a little longer, and leans back.

Cold breath shifts the hair at his shoulder, a light ticklish movement that just adds to the shivering anticipation. He should be used to it by now, he thinks- before realising the absurdity of the thought and the ghost of a smile crosses his lips.

The breathing grows closer, and Jon shifts restlessly in his seat. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“May I?” The question is soft to his ears, and yet its promises are sharp.

“Yes, yes, if you must, Michael.”

“That isn’t a real yes, Jonathan. It’s no fun,” it says, caressing his neck. Hot flashes of pain spike as its fingertips brush his shoulders, but Jon only leans into its embrace further.  
“No, it’s no fun if you don’t ask for it, Jonathan.”

Jon sighs.  
“Fine. Yes, I want you to do it.” He bites his tongue before he says something stupid like Just get it over with. He doesn’t know what Michael would do with a statement like that.

It smiles, and its teeth are so white, and so, so sharp.  
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

It hurts. Oh, god, it hurts. Michael’s teeth are not meant for anything short of tearing, and it’s not just his neck that feels torn apart- agony races across and through and into every part of his body like a flash fire. It feels like he’s being destroyed- but he can’t move as he disappears inch by inch under the numbness that follows. He struggles to even flicker his eyes over to Michael, even as he tries fruitlessly to move himself closer, lean into the bite. He doesn’t even feel the blood that drips down his neck until he comes back to himself what feels like an eternity afterwards, the quiet stinging of the bite healing far too quickly for a thing of its size. One of Michael’s little gifts, he supposes.

Jon is content to lie there for a while, sensation slowly coming back to him as he shifts minutely where he is placed in Michael’s lap, its hands slowly scratching at his scalp, careful not to break the surface of his skin. He feels tender, and helpless, and yet oh so safe. It’s probably just the venom talking, the dizziness of the blood loss- but he feels safer here in this monster’s lap than anywhere else he could possibly be. 

He should be scared of that too, but he isn't. He can’t muster the terror that should be flooding through him. He is a feast for a being that should care as little for his life as he would for a meal on his plate- filling, tasty, and ready to be discarded should something go wrong. Good for a supper, a light snack and then gone. The fact that Michael keeps around should worry him more, but the arrangement they’ve fallen into seems to have become nothing more than another step in Jon’s daily routine.

Jon basks in Michael’s presence for a great deal longer before finally sighing, and pushing himself weakly across onto the other side of the couch. He looks up at Michael, its face still that perpetual mask of amusement.

It watches him, eyes a kaleidoscope of impossible colours, far too many for mortal eyes to really parse. If Jon were like it, he wonders, would he be able to see them, to truly understand them? 

God, it's beautiful.

Even here, marks still fresh on his neck- well, there are days when Jon entirely forgets to fear the wretched thing that’s twisted its way through his life. Perhaps some thought that if it was going to do something irreversible to him, it would quite simply have done so already. Jon has learned to live with Michael’s unique diet- a dizzy spell here and there is a small price to pay for the peace and quiet that it brings.

It’s as he stares at the glass pressed up against Micheal’s lips, that Jon makes his first mistake, and asks the thing a question.  
“How do you drink that?”

Michael blinks slowly, eyes wide. But not innocent- Jon isn’t sure it has the capacity for that anymore.  
“Whatever could you mean?”

Jon makes a face.  
“Oh, come off it. I can’t think of a way it wouldn’t be disgusting- does it taste different to you?”

Michael smiles. It’s a relaxed sort-of-grin that would put Jon at ease, if it were on any other face. But between thin, twisted lips the dagger-like peaks of its teeth shine, knife-sharp. Jon shudders at the thought of them sinking into his neck once more. He doesn’t know if it's fear- or something else. Something else would be more worrying, if he were not in that strange half-fogged state.  
“Disgusting? It’s rather nothing of the sort,” it says with false hurt, swirling the glass around and watching the blood settle in the grooves, rivulets of crimson streaming in swirling fractals down and up the sides, “It’s rather delectable. Have you-” Michael says, “-Have you ever tried it like this?”

The acrid scent of blood is thick in the air now. Jon tries and fails to keep his face neutral. A stiff grimace twists his mouth.  
“I can’t say I have. I don’t intend to, either.”

“Not even just one sip?”Michael asks, oh-so-innocently, ”I think you’ve rather hurt my feelings, Jonathan. One sip- see for yourself and I’ll let you be. You know how- ah, how persistent I can be.” It tilts its head, “And after all, you’re so curious. Don’t you want to know?”

Jon doesn’t fall for Michael’s facade of hurt for a moment- and yet still, the prospect of Michael letting him be for the evening is tempting. He usually doesn’t mind its teasing and the way it holds him- but it’s been a long day, and his patience for such things is long gone.

(For years afterwards, in small moments, he wonders if Michael had somehow planned it that way.)

He takes the glass, and winces as he lets the smallest of droplets run past his lips and down his throat.

It is, as he suspected, disgusting- but he barely tastes it at all. He’s certain that Michael won’t accept that tiny sip as proof of its taste, regardless of what it said. No, it will not let him out of their deal that easily. With a drawn out grimace, he haltingly takes another sip, then just to be sure, a full gulp of the liquid. 

It’s- it’s not quite the same as it had seemed at first blush. No- it’s sugary and cloying, though on balance, still wholly unpleasant. He surprises himself when he lifts the glass to his lips again, and again- with every bit of it that passes over his tongue, he feels its warmth fill him, like light filling him from the inside. The taste of it is sweet- far too sweet- and as it dries up, strangely warm on his tongue, he feels sated in a way he’s not sure he’s ever been before. 

He can’t stop himself from letting out a sigh of contentment. He feels rather like he’s eaten a full meal- which can’t be right, he’s only had- 

The glass is empty. As he stares at it, Jon’s hands go slack, weakened with numb shock. The glass hits the ground and shatters with a crack, thin crystalline patterns spiralling out across the floor.

He looks up. A look of amusement is on Michael’s face, as he watches Jon.  
“Why, Jonathan! I didn’t realise you were such a connoisseur!”

“What- I-” He shakes his head as if to clear from it the fuzzy warmth that rises up from his . 

Michael’s breath is at his shoulder, even as it sits across the room. It laughs and stretches and- everything moves. Nothing is where it should be- Jon can’t make out up and down and it laughs again at Jon’s discomfort as the world tilts.  
“You seem rather taken with it.”

“I-”

“Perhaps you do understand, after all! Don’t worry, I can always find more.” “

“I don’t want it!” snaps Jon. The harshness in his voice makes him jump, and he sinks back in his seat and buries his head in his hands. He wishes things would stop spinning. 

It tilts its head and its grin widens. Jon didn’t know it could get any wider.  
“Are you so sure about that, Jonathan?”

He-

He catches himself mid-shudder, and glares at Michael.  
“Yes. Of course.”

But, god, even as he says it, he doubts it. It had been sweet- sweeter than anything he’s tasted. And as he tries desperately to turn his mind to anything else- his teeth ache to think of it.

\---------

It is not better in the morning.

Hunger claws at him as he pours his cereal, and doesn’t let up when he puts down his last spoonful. It tastes bland. It always tastes somewhat bland, but it hasn’t bothered him before- but the memory of the sweetness of the previous night is at the forefront of his mind. His mouth is watering and before he knows it, he’s bitten down on his lip- hard. A droplet of blood forms and in another lapse of self-control, his tongue flickers out and licks it clean.

He just about manages to not drop his bowl, as he leans back against the counter top, hand resting on a drawer handle.

Michael is nowhere to be seen.

It’s not like it, to leave Jon alone like this. On any other day, it would be bothering Jon, nipping at his neck and laughing at his feeble attempts to swat it away. He doesn’t… He doesn’t miss it exactly. But the certainty of it all- Michael is a strange constant in Jon’s life. Its lack of presence leaves him feeling rather unmoored as he drifts around the flat. He almost laughs. Honestly. He couldn’t have chosen a worse anchor. Michael is famously changeable.

Hm. Jon thinks back to the previous night. Good grief, is Michael keeping a promise? It’s all rather unlike him. Then again, if one tells a truth once, it is that much easier to believe the lies. Trust something like Michael to confound him with its presence and non-presence both.

Jon feels a headache coming on. 

\------  
The hunger doesn’t lessen through the day. He eats twice as much as normal in an attempt to feed the void that seems to have replaced his stomach, but he just feels nauseous. The memory of the sweetness of his last real drink doesn’t dull through the day. It’s ever in the forefront of his thoughts.

The sun keeps getting in his eyes as he works, and his normal desk is rather too warm to concentrate properly. He moves further away from the windows, into the cool dark of the office, and tries to focus on the words that dart across his screen. He jots down a meeting in his diary. 

There’s a thumping sound from behind him. It's regular and steady and- incredibly annoying. He asks at the front desk, but no, there’s no work being done. No construction, no repairs that might explain the thudding that seems to be everywhere he goes in the building. Jon resigns himself to working through the noise.

\---------

Michael is not there that night, either. Jon, to his surprise, finds himself missing it. Missing its sharp and tender embrace, missing the strange feeling under its skin as Jon lies across its strange chest, hollow with maddening laughter.

Jon chops vegetables. Jon boils water.

He doesn’t bother to finish his meal.

The sinking feeling in his chest knows that it won’t do him any good.

He knows what he craves now. He’s spent a whole day deluding himself- that thudding was someone playing music with too much bass, the hunger is because he hasn’t been eating the right food- well, the second assertion only wrong inasmuch as the sustenance his body sings for is not strictly food. 

He’s eaten enough, today, he tells himself.

He goes to bed, and falls into dreamless sleep.

\----------

The sunlight itches as it streams in through his blinds. Michael is not there. The thirst claws at his throat, dagger-like in its intensity. It feels like it's climbing out of him, a beast trying to break free. If he doesn’t do something soon, some terrible thing threatens to spill out of him, to wrap itself around him and become him. He swallows the feeling back down, and goes to turn on the shower. Even in the water’s embrace, he shivers. The warmth has been robbed from him in the night. No matter how long he stands below the steaming column of water, he cannot shake the chill in the tips of his fingers, on the skin of his face. 

It’s a long time before Jon gives up and resigns himself to the empty, gnawing cold.  
By mid-morning, the frozen feeling has reached his chest. Jon idly wonders when it’ll take his heart.

Michael is not there that evening, either.

Jon doesn’t bother with dinner.

\-------

There is something wrong in the mirror. Jon stares at his reflection, trying to make sense of where the deep feeling of wrongness comes from. He opens his mouth- and there it is.

Michael’s teeth are sharp and jagged. Jon once saw pictures of a seal’s teeth- a crabeater, if he recalls correctly. Teeth like craggy peaks, but only used for straining krill from the water. Michael’s are sharper than that, and built for nothing quite so benign. Although, Jon supposes, it probably doesn’t seem all that benign to the krill. 

Jon’s teeth are not longer than he expected. No, they are still the same in that regard. But the shape of them is different- a human is supposed to have four canines- two at the top of the mouth, and two below that. Jon isn’t sure how many he has now, but it’s not four. It hurts to look at, and he can feel his mouth shifting now.

He stops looking.

If he doesn’t hurry, he’ll be late for work.

He doesn’t notice his eyes.  
\--------

It's nearing two o’clock when Jon gives in and puts in a pair of earphones. He can hear so many heartbeats now. This twisting of his senses makes the rush of his coworkers’ blood loud, louder than the chatter of his coworkers. It almost drowns out his music, but he turns it up and focuses on the words he can make out. He can get through this. He doesn’t feel thirsty, and he doesn’t need Michael.

\-------

Michael isn’t there.

\-------

Michael isn’t there, and Jon is tired.

Jon is tired, and sluggish and so very hungry.

He barely remembers the morning. The journey to work is a blur, his travels through the Underground hazy but for the thunderous cacophony of the hearts and the rushing lifeblood that surrounds him. He barely notices the train arrive at his stop, and is bustled out through the door in the stream of people as he fails to resist their motion.

By the end of the day he has a headache from keeping his jaws clamped shut. It doesn’t help that his usual response to such an affliction is to snap at whoever might speak to him- opening his mouth in anger seems to be the absolute worst thing to do. He spends the day trying not to think about what might happen, but only manages to cement the reality of his situation in his mind: piece by piece, he is losing his humanity- and soon he must feed.

The weight of the growing realisation sits in his chest the whole way home, as he blankly stares from his seat on the train, trying not to look up at the maze of twisting veins and rushing blood that surrounds him. No- the people that surround him.

It’s growing harder to make that distinction.

\--------

Jon isn’t sure when he knows it, but Michael is there. It runs long fingers through his hair, leaving twists and tangles in its wake.

Jon says nothing. He lies there and listens for the beating of a heart that seems to cast a hungry shadow over every conversation of late, but all he hears is blissful silence; not even the shallow sound of breathing interrupts the numbing calm that seems to have fallen over him.

Michael reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in its own. Its fingers, terrifying in their heavy wrongness, weave themselves in knots around his own in a web-like embrace. Jon thinks about asking it where it's been, then thinks better of it. Some things are just better left unknown. Not that he’d be likely to pull a coherent answer out of the thing anyway; so he just listens to the silence that seems to pool around the two of them. The quiet surrounds him in a way that was once familiar, but Jon hasn’t heard in days.

Michael breaks the silence with a quiet laugh that reverberates through Jon’s skin where it meets its knife-sharp fingers, the shock travelling up his arms and throughout his body, bit by bit until it reaches his ears, a silent orchestra of a thousand unseen instruments, plucking on his every string.  
“You,” it whispers into his still-ringing ears, “Are taking to this much better than I could have hoped.”

The thrumming fades, and Jon’s mouth goes numb.  
“You planned this.”

“Oh- you give me too much credit, Jonathan! I simply saw the opportunity, and, well,”  
It gestures at Jon, shrugging its shoulders, “You must have known our little game couldn’t have gone on like that forever.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” says Jon, despairingly.

“Oh, don’t wallow about it. You were always going to ask the wrong question someday- it’s what you do, isn’t it? You’re just too curious, aren’t you- I wonder,” it says to itself, “I wonder if that will stay.”

“I don’t know what you- I feel mostly the same. Just-” He stops himself.

“Just hungry, yes?”

Jon averts his eyes. It’s as good as a confirmation, and he knows it. Still, the words are heavy and he’s not sure he can bear them just yet. Better to speak through the silence. It feels less like an admission, even if his meaning is so very clear. 

Michael tilts its head to the side, long blonde hair swaying from the motion, and flashes its teeth, razor sharp and hungry. Jon supposes it could only stay away so long before it needed its next meal, emptiness gnawing at its frozen veins.

God. At any other time, he may have refused for stubbornness’ sake. Perhaps in better circumstances, he would draw things out and grasp at a few more minutes of stark lucidity. But not this time. He needs to remind himself that he is the human here, that he is still prey, even when every vein sings that he is not.

“Knock yourself out.” He tries to funnel dry humour into his voice, but the croaking of his parched throat and the tiredness that grips at every part of him make him just sound ill.

Michael nods, and cold teeth slide effortlessly into the warmth of his neck.

The pain isn’t so bad, this time. There is always the stabbing pain before the numbness, the teeth tearing into his neck before he feels nothing at all. But no- this time, Michael is almost gentle. Probably doesn’t want to break its half-starved plaything, thinks Jon as he leans his head back to find a more comfortable position. Then- 

I see you’ve been hungry, Jonathan. I suppose that’s my fault, isn’t it?

A voice sounds in his mind, filling his head with fuzzy static that makes it difficult to think. Michael’s been careful with his thoughts thus far, preferring not to meddle for fear of causing permanent damage. Jon doesn’t know which thought scares him more- that Michael is being rather careless with him, or that something has changed in him, something that means it doesn’t need to be quite as careful with his psyche.

He tries not to think about the implications of that.

Well?

Michael removes his fangs from Jon’s neck, from where they were buried deep in his tissue. The wound doesn’t bleed as it should, even as Michael makes no effort to staunch the flow. There’s a strange itching, and Jon is sure that if he watched, he would see the edges of his wound begin to move, to stitch itself back together the same way Michael’s injuries did the day they met.

Just another wearying sign of his newfound inhumanity. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, nestling into the edges of his gut.

“Is there-” he stops himself, already cursing the hopeless train of thought.

“Yes?”

“Is there any way to stop this- to go back to how things were?” God, he feels stupid as he says it. His body is changing, and even his mind is starting to slip into that inhuman place- how could anyone reverse such a thing? But what can he do but hope, when he cannot bring himself to accept what is happening, what he is becoming?

Michael stretches back in a leisurely way, everything stretching out just a little more than it should.  
“Of course, Jonathan! It’s quite simple,” it says, drawing away. “You just have to do one thing.”

Jon leans back, searching for the lost comfort of Michael's grip, and sinks into its lap. It grins and runs its claw-like fingers through his hair, now thoroughly mussed.

“What do I have to do?”

“It’s rather simple, really. All a fledgeling must do,” it says, twirling Jon’s hair, “Is stop the change at its source. To be free, you must bring about the end of your sire.”

Jon freezes, but Michael just carries on, smile far too wide on its face.

“Such a refusal of my changes- of the powers I am gifting you- a rejection of the new lifeblood I granted you- well, nothing else would work to reclaim your humanity with such potency.”

Jon’s thoughts spin. 

“You know what? I’m feeling generous today. If this really, truly isn’t what you want, you can do it,” says Michael, unbuttoning its shirt, right down to its heart. “It’s ever so easy-” 

“How do I know that won’t just finish the change? I’ve never seen anything like you- maybe there can only be one of-” Jon catches himself before he can say ‘us’, but from the smug look on Michael’s face, it heard the meaning loud and clear.

“Oh no, it’s so much simpler than all that. All the change takes to start is the mixing of blood- mine and human both- and you have something in between. A halfling, if you will, though such distinctions are largely meaningless. They all end the same way, after all.”

“I thought you said-”

“Oh yes, there is a way of stopping it- that, at least, was not a lie. You can prevent the change, until you make your first kill and truly accept your role as what you are now. Yes, you can be ‘saved’. And all you have to do,” it says, shifting away from Jon in a sudden movement that leaves him dizzy and his thoughts scattered, “All you have to do is kill me. It’s rather simple.”

“But no one does it. Otherwise...” He gestures at Michael.

Michael laughs, the corners of its mouth reaching far further than they should.  
“There’s no trap, Jonathan- no hidden part to this. You kill me- and you go back to your life, utterly human. The thirst will fade, in time and you will be free of my influence. Return to what you had before.”

Jon blinks, as if that will help him make heads or tails of Michael’s intentions. He frowns at it, as it reclines.  
“I don’t understand.”

Michael is laughing. He doesn’t stop, even as words overlay themselves in the dizzying joy of it all, blending into a loop of maddening noise.  
“Of course you don’t! You have my blood running through your veins now- and I’m rather afraid that understanding is not my greatest power.”

“Then-”

“Hush.” Michael puts a long, spindly finger over Jon’s mouth, the laughter still echoing in his skull, and he finds his voice fails him. “You ask so many questions. Those that accept my gifts- truly accept them- are given dizzying power. Most simply are not willing to give that up, and I do not give out offers such as your own lightly.”

It finally sinks in. Jonathan Sims has a choice to make, here and now. And despite his horror, despite his creeping dread at what he is becoming- he finds that he does not know his answer. He should know his answer, this should be if not easy then at least simple, but he does not know. 

Jon doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He wants to do it- reclaim the threads of his humanity before they are scattered to the wind-

He… He wants to want to do it. He should- he feels like he should. It should be simple- kill Michael, rid the world of a monster, and save himself from this aching hunger that threatens to pull him apart at the seams. If he doesn’t do this now, if he doesn’t find the resolve somewhere in this instant, he knows deep down he never will. Or at least, not before it is far, far too late to turn back.

Michael shifts slightly, watching him intently. He half fancies the creature can hear his thoughts, knows what he’s thinking- but he’s never showed such an inclination before. No, more likely his turmoil is written on his shifting face.

The change- the new instincts, the way he has to remind himself that the people around him are just that, people- it comes as easy to him as breathing. It’s so easy to just surrender to all his new senses and hunger and strange thoughts. So much easier than grappling with his thirst, a struggle that seems as hopeless as cupping water in his hands and trying to hold it all in. All this while, his control has been slipping through his fingers and, he realises as he sinks with a sigh against Michael’s still chest, he has precious little left. 

It’s an admission of defeat, and they both know it. Jon tries not to think about it, as long fingers card through his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this was "I want Jondistortion vampire turning and I want it now."
> 
> I started this in April, I think. Oops.


End file.
